Autumn's Tree

O autumn winds that bake and burn
And all the world to darkness turn,
Now storm and seize and make of me...
A swarm of leaves from Autumn's Tree!

Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree (London: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), p. 67.

Autumn is Like Old Age

ἔοικε δὲ τοῦ ἐνιαυτοῦ περιιόντος οἷον γῆρας εἶναι τὸ φθινόπωρον· οὔπω γὰρ ἥκει τὸ ὑγρόν, οὐκέτι δὲ τὸ θερμὸν ἔρρωται

And as the year revolves, late autumn is like old age; for the wet season has not arrived, and the warm season is no longer strong

Plutarch, Moralia, VIII.736. My translation.

Autumn

 vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput
      Autumnus agris extulit,
ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pira
      certantem et uvam purpurae,
qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater
      Silvane, tutor finium!

when out in the fields Autumn raised his head adorned with mellow fruits, how he rejoices in plucking grafted pears and the grape which competes in hue with the purple with which he might repay you, Priapus and you, Father Sylvanus, guardian of the countryside!

Horace, Epodes, II.17-22. My translation.

A Cold Day in Autumn

Miklós Istvánffy (1538-1615), Lusus pastoralis (23 Octobris, 1564, Posonii.)

Saevit atrox Boreas, nigro dum turbine terras
   Contristat, crebris saevit hyems nivibus,
Saevit et irati, quoties tumet, aequoris unda,
   Et quoties summi fulminat aula Iovis.
Saeva quidem sunt haec, at nostro in pectore longe est
   Saevior occultis ignibus Alcinoe.

The savage North Wind rages while he darkens the lands with a black wind. Winter rages with dense snows. She rages and excites the waters of the angered ocean. Behold how oft the hall of highest Jupiter flashes with lightening. All these things are indeed savage, but in my heart Acinoe is far more savage than the secret fires.

Nicolaus Istvanffy, Carmina, ed. by Josef Holub and László Juhász (Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1935), p. 23. My translation.

Notes:
atrox Boreas, cf. Statius, Silvae, 3.3.96 ‘quae Boreas quaeque Eurus atrox’

nigro turbine, cf. Virgil, Georg. I.320-21: ‘ita turbine nigro / ferret hiems’

Reading in Autumn

Susan Hill, The Small Hand (London: Profile Books, 2010), p. 132:

    It was hopeless then to try and sleep. I read for a while but the words slid off the surface of my mind. I opened the window. It was raining slightly and the air was heavy, but there was the chill of autumn on it.

To Melancholy.

Charlotte Smith (1749-1806)
SONNET XXXII. To Melancholy.
Written on the Banks of the Arun, October, 1785.

WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil
And the gray mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Thro' the half leafless wood that breathes the gale.
For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night wand'rers, who their woes bewail!
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity's own Otway, I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind!
Oh Melancholy! — such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
    And soothe the pensive visionary mind!